He slipped off the log. When he shifted his weight, a sheaf of rotted bark slid off, his foot slid with it. His tailbone hit the log. He almost toppled backward. Caught himself, barely. Whoa. He stood up and brushed the cold wet off his ass. Laughed at himself. Felt proud that he could still laugh at himself. Kept walking. Took another swig.
Step six: The first time he’d lost a friend to drinking. He’d punched his friend Richard. A valid argument. They hadn’t spoken since. They’d been friends since they were thirteen, had been through puberty together. And Richard threw all of that away—because of a little fistfight. Most men weren’t even friends until they’d punched each other. Richard had always been so uptight. And he had changed so much at Princeton, he was snottier, full of himself. Good riddance, Nick thought. Still, he was not the only person who didn’t talk to Nick anymore. Nick was no fool. A pattern was a pattern. You lose enough friends, you start to see that you’re to blame, not them. He took responsibility again. Proved to himself, again, that he was wise and in control.
He came to the last sip of whiskey. He stopped, holding it. He leaned against a tree and looked up at the light through the leaves. He toasted the tree. Drained the bottle. Commemorated the moment. Tucked the empty bottle in his pocket. Planned to recycle it. Okay, he’d made mistakes, but at heart he was a good guy. The kind of guy who recycles.
He walked for a while. Not really thinking. Felt his breath. Felt his shoes. It was time to head back, he decided. He wasn’t going to get all the way to the bottom of the hill. He had to turn around eventually. He cut off the path. He knew the general direction of the house. He was proud of his sense of direction. He climbed over logs, walking uphill. He felt time pass, and felt the whiskey burn, insistently, in his head. It was the feeling that came when too little whiskey dissipated too quickly. But he would be back at the cabin soon.
He reminded himself that he hadn’t listed step five. Or four. The two were linked. They were a little tricky, in terms of order. One was his first blackout. The other was the first time he’d tried seriously to cure a hangover with more booze. Not just a Bloody Mary at brunch. A desperate cure on a Monday. Two shots of vodka in quick succession. Followed by a beer. Followed by a job interview at the sheriff’s office. (Which he’d aced! And then he’d worked as a dispatcher for nearly a year! And then he only lost the job because of three little naps at the front desk!) Although that specific hair-of-the-dog cure wasn’t the first. And the blackout that preceded it wasn’t the first, either. He couldn’t tell which had come first. There had been times he’d oscillated between the two steps for days and nights. It was a chicken-and-egg situation, really. He moved on.
Step three was the first time he tried to have sex and failed because he was drunk. It was the first time that drinking had cost him something. It was a point of no return. Who would choose booze over sex? But he had. Many times. How many times had he told Lindsey he was too tired? Many times. He took a break from walking and wished he had another sip in the bottle. He felt the peace of the woods around him and knew whiskey would help him enjoy it. He felt nostalgic, thinking about Lindsey. So he pushed to step two. It was the first time he’d been drunk with family.
It was both his best Christmas and his best buzz to date. He was nineteen, on an indefinite break from college. He’d sat up with his big brother and talked for hours. His brother was ten years older than him. Had been in the Peace Corps. Joined the Foreign Service and worked in Beijing the entire time Nick was in high school. Rarely came home. That night was the first time Nick felt like he even knew his brother. Their father had left a few years earlier for the woman from church, and they talked about it that night—for the first time really talked about it. And for the first time his brother saw him as a person. And when both of them were hungover on Boxing Day their mother had teased them about it, found it charming. She made them a giant plate of tortilla chips with black beans and fried eggs and mounds of cheese. She knew what kind of breakfast was necessary. She, too, had been hungover before. They all commiserated together, over fried eggs.
He thought back to two days ago, when he’d shown up on his mother’s doorstep on a whim because he hadn’t seen her in months, and she had not mentioned the fact that he smelled like a week of cheap beer and had walked from the bus station three miles away. She had just hugged him and offered him a sandwich. She was still deep in the realm of forgiveness and patience (at a time when even his brother would no longer see him on holidays). He knew she would do the same again and again. He had many more miles to go with his mother. Even the car, for example, which he had borrowed from her without technically asking, would be forgiven. It was just for the weekend. It’s not like he was fencing it for drugs. He was just borrowing it for some much-needed time away. His mother would understand.
Then he realized that this was another of the steps. A step in his future, maybe it was number eleven: When his mother stopped loving him. She would be the last of the people who still loved him, but one day, even his mother would give up. Just as Lindsey had given up. The fact that he could recognize this was coming made him feel, again, that he was in control of his fate.
But no sense dwelling on that, back to step one: Was it too easy to say it was his first drink? But this was one of the core facts of his life. It was a bone-deep truth about himself that he could not deny any more than he could claim to be not a man or not an American. He had avoided alcohol in high school at first because he was an athlete above all else. Then they won their state championships and he had a beer to celebrate. He took a long swallow of that first beer, and then another. He did not want to stop. He took to drinking like a mathematician to a chalkboard, with a giddy flush of discovery. He had found the place where he would always be the most comfortable, simultaneously the most himself and the best version of himself, and he was very careful to protect that comfort for only when he really needed it, even as he started to need it more and more. For so many years it had been a thing that was always waiting for him, a treat at the end of any challenge, and then, increasingly, at the beginning of every challenge, and now here he was, alone in the woods, drinking all day.
The tide of his last sip had reached the “high-water mark” and was already starting to ebb. But he didn’t worry. The woods around him sharpened, but it was probably just the whiskey leaving him, sobriety edging in, and he refused to acknowledge that this was scary. He decided he was worried about being lost. He focused on walking in a straight line, pretending that he could judge by the angle of the sun. Which was lucky because otherwise he would have fallen straight into this huge hole.
Wait. What was that. Nick took two steps backward and leaned against a tree. It was not a normal hole. It looked more like a grave. A long rectangle, sharp walls straight down, and while Nick wasn’t the best judge of distance in the world, he would have bet a hundred bucks on a depth of six feet. There was a shovel leaned against a nearby tree, mud clumped on the business end. Nick let his mind do the thing where it stayed kind of blank with indecision as he stared at the hole. This is probably just something hunters do, he thought. This is probably just for hunting.
For hunting deer, he felt compelled to clarify.
It must have been old, anyway. He hadn’t seen anyone up here, after all. Nothing since those men walking up in the robes. And the dreams from last night. Nick took two steps closer and crouched down next to the hole, trying to convince himself not to feel deeply freaked out. It was just a hole in the ground. Who knows how long it had been here? He kicked at a stick, sent it spinning down into the hole out of petulance. The stick landed on the soft dirt at the bottom without making a sound. Nick noticed that there were leaves on the ground all around him but none at the bottom of the hole. Which meant that it was pretty freshly dug. Or maybe leaves just didn’t fall into this spot.
Nick remembered suddenly a ghost story Lindsey had told him when they were up at the cabin. But he had taken it to be a joke, or s
ome kind of entertainment, anyway, she was trying to make him have fun without drinking, she was trying to scare him straight. The story she told was about how vagabonds and criminals used to squat in the cabin, because the former owners were almost never there, and that when her cousin had bought the house, he’d found a human thighbone in the closet. Swear to God, Lindsey had said, but Nick still hadn’t believed her, she was just trying to keep him entertained while sober, which of course didn’t work, although in retrospect he could have been nicer to her for trying. But anyway a thighbone in a closet really didn’t have anything to do with this grave—if anything, it denoted a lack of graves, the closet being less optimal storage for human remains. Nick tried to make himself laugh. Instead he threw up, against the base of a tree.
He leaned against the tree with his back to the grave, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, and he had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He had the feeling something was climbing out of the grave, slowly and steadily. Without looking back he started to run, although he was too weak to run quickly; he moved, in what he hoped was a straight line, and time did not seem to make any sense, he felt like he was running forever, he wondered if he had died and this was hell—constant movement through infinite woods, with no trail apparent. But eventually he broke out of the brush onto the dirt road, and while he didn’t recognize this particular bend of the road where he had emerged from the woods, the right way was obvious—uphill—and he started the hike and then continued to hike and hike, it was a long way made longer by sobriety, both boring and exhausting, he stopped to catch his breath frequently, as the thirst steadily invaded until it became the only thought in his brain and the only feeling in his body and he could not really deny that it was the only thing that mattered to him, at least in that moment, as he crossed the field, as he ran, did not walk, to the front door, and ripped the ax out of it, leaving behind a single clean wound in the NO TRESPASSING sign.
“Fuck this,” he said out loud, this was ridiculous, he was going to leave. He dropped the ax on the couch and went into the kitchen and got another pint of whiskey and tucked it under his arm and held two fresh beers in his right hand and took everything over to the wooden table and sat down. He was going to leave the cabin, he thought again, as he finished the first beer in a long swallow and then opened the whiskey and drank, workmanlike, until he was able to close his eyes and breathe again. He put the whiskey in his pocket and opened the second beer.
Everything was fine. There was nothing coming out of the grave, he had imagined that, there was no one following him. He went and stood over the ax. He felt calm. He didn’t want to accidentally lie down on the ax later. He picked it up and held it by the neck, like a snake. He looked around the kitchen. He tucked it in the corner by the minifridge. He relaxed, knowing it was out of the way. While he was there he pulled out two more beers. Which he carried out to the porch. He closed the door behind him. He ignored the gash in the door. He sat on the top step and drank slowly.
The sun was sinking over the meadow. Everything was fine, there was nothing to be afraid of, but still, he was gonna leave. This was stupid, being here. He leaned back and looked at the clock inside the house. It was nearly six o’clock. He would just sober up a bit, just finish this beer slowly and then sober up, and then leave. He would call Lindsey.
He finished that beer and opened the other.
They had met during his year of college. They saw each other from time to time, she always flirted with him, he always liked her. Once they’d played pool at a frat party and he’d beaten her by a single shot. Only later that night did he realize. She had let him win.
They met again, years later. She was at a friend’s party in Richmond. Nick’s drinking was at a good pace then. He was working at a bar. Having left the sheriff’s office. (Having been terminated from the sheriff’s office, Lindsey would say.) At the bar he could do shots throughout the evening. Then he could join another party after the bar closed, when everyone else was drunk, too. Although it was sometimes hard to keep those parties going. Nick had to run circles to keep people drinking with him. On nights when there were no parties he stayed at the bar. Drank with the waiters. It was a party one night when he saw Lindsey. This was a Saturday night. He had two hundred dollars in his pocket, a good night of tips. He took her to a diner and bought her a milkshake. She’d never had one with malt. She loved it. He’d always felt milkshakes were romantic. Ever since high school, the first time he’d bought a girl a milkshake. The milkshake with Lindsey was the best. She made him laugh, and he made her laugh. It was too romantic, their meeting like this after all these years. It was too romantic to be real. So he made a point to really enjoy that one fake night.
The beer was gone and the whiskey was in his hand again. The whiskey was more than half gone. He was drinking too fast. But he needed it. He was thinking about Lindsey. How they’d walked home after the diner. Miles to her apartment. And he’d fallen asleep in her arms. Her soft, downy bed. Her sheets that smelled like warm grass. They’d had sex the next morning and he wasn’t hungover. They ate eggs and he smiled at her. Then said he needed to run. You need to run? she asked. An errand, he said, but I’ll call you, and he jogged back to his car at the diner. Got the bourbon out of the glove box. Only because he was so excited. And then he felt better. Felt, so this is it. This is love.
Two weeks of this before Lindsey caught on to his alcoholism. Had been on his best behavior. But didn’t have the strength for more than ten days in a row. Passed out next to her. In a movie theater. She couldn’t wake him up. Called the paramedics. Who, upon arrival, recognized him. From the last time something like this had happened.
He made it up to her. Sort of. He guessed she must have really loved him. Because she kept trying. It was too romantic to be real. He kept enjoying each fake night. She got angry. Then angrier. They would break up, then get back together. He would slow down his drinking. Make her happy for a while. Then it would speed up again ahead of him. Two years of this. She had tried. He had tried. It was over. He had to get over her. She was better off without him. She was right about him. She was
He woke up in bed feeling amazing, his eyes opened like he had only blinked. Sun coming in the window. He was refreshed and energetic. It was a morning like he hadn’t felt in months. His head was clear. He stretched his arms above his head and yawned. Like how a cartoon cat would wake up. He was so glad to be here. And yesterday he had almost left! He would have denied himself this good feeling. He laughed at himself, wriggled back down into the sheets. He had never made the bed. The sheets were all piled around in the shape of his body. Beds should be shaped like bodies. It was like a comfortable nest. He basked in the sunlight. How silly that he had wanted to leave. Because he saw some weird hole in the woods? Okay, it looked like a grave, it was weird. But he wasn’t from around here. Nick didn’t know what people did for fun up here. Who was he to judge.
As he bounded out of bed he stumbled. Then realized that there was still some bourbon in his system. Which was part of why he felt good. But still, a good start to the day. He could get out ahead of the hangover. He would eat something. He wriggled his bare toes in a patch of sun on the floor.
He went into the bathroom and peed a glorious river. He went into the kitchen and was glad to see that the ax was still safely behind the fridge. He hadn’t done any new crazy thing. The oatmeal was still warm and chewy.
He stood chewing and looking out the window. The sun was bright. There was something about the window that had happened last night. It swam slowly at the edge of his consciousness, like a dream you can’t look at head-on.
He remembered that he had left the power saw outside. That was stupid. What if bears got it? He laughed at that thought. But was glad. It was still out there. He could cut some more wood today. He could replace what he’d used. He would leave the cabin just as he’d found it. He was a regular Boy Scout. Lindsey, see, I’m responsible.
After
he ate, he went to the trunk of the car and carried the second case of beer inside. Then he brought a beer out to sit on the porch. He said “Good morning!” to the menagerie of animals. The deer and the frogs and the flamingo. He looked out across the field and saw a small animal lift its head. He watched it. He watched it for a minute and found that the memory from the night before was there. It was just at the edge of thought. If he let his brain go soft and lazy it would float up. He watched the animal. It was a groundhog. It moved like a rolling egg, wobbling side to side as it moved. It would run a few feet ahead, weeble-wobbling, then stop and bend over to eat. He watched it and let his mind conjure up what had happened in the night.
He had gotten up for something. A drink or to pee, or something. Or something had woken him up. For some reason he went into the kitchen. There was nothing to see. But as his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw a face. In the window. And another face in the other window, too. There were faces in all of the windows, men looking into the house. It was one of those dreams you can’t remember if you’re trying, you just have to let it float back. He had dreamed that the house was surrounded by men looking in his windows. He couldn’t remember anything after that.
He felt cold. The good feeling of the morning went away. But nothing had changed, it was still the same situation. Just some dream. He stood up roughly. He decided to go chop wood.
The sun was still on its way to its peak. It was only about ten. He tested the saw and then turned it off and heard the echo of the buzz come back to him from across the field as the saw blade slowed with a metal clang. He set up a log on the stump and turned on the saw and started cutting. He’d forgotten how satisfying it was to cut wood this way. So quick and powerful. He felt that he could do this for hours. Maybe he would leave a good stack. A kind of payment for his use of the cabin.
True Story Page 11
